4 a.m. I’m scrubbing pots while big eyes 
of children stare at me from the TV 
and an old huckster tries to guilt me 
into donating money that will never find 
its way to feed those hungry children.
Just me and the street light streaming 
through the window, until the thunk 
on the driveway, and I can’t make up 
my mind whether to go outside 
and get the paper, like who else would be 
out there except the delivery boy, 
and he’s long gone, no stray dog to sniff 
me either, not at this time of day or night, 
which is it? I make a cup of tea, settle in,
and watch a paid ad for state-of-the-art 
vacuum cleaners and another for a chair 
contraption guaranteed to resculpt my body 
in six weeks—fat chance—although 
who throws money at ads if there are no 
likely buyers? I must not be the only one 
with eyes propped open, and it’s cold, 
not May yet, I want to turn up the heat, 
but don’t, because I should be upstairs 
under the quilt, at least pretending to sleep, 
make that old rooster earn his keep.

From Detours & Diversions (Main Street Rag, 2011)
Used with the author's permission.